


Those Blues

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically? Uniform porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Blues

A small galaxy of Generals’ stars is swirling around Rodney’s lab. The glint and flash of five-point silver catches in the overhead lights, over-bright, strikes painfully into Rodney’s eyes, twangs along his optic nerves. Thankfully, Rodney has finished playing host for the day, so he doesn’t have to try and pretend this whole thing isn’t pissing him off. Woolsey stepped forward to usher the glittering delegation on at just about the point Rodney was going to start yelling if he had to tell any of them - especially Jack O’Neill – to quit fucking touching stuff already one more time.

The whole time John has leaned on Rodney’s peripheral vision, arms and ankles crossed where he stood against the door to Rodney’s open office. The blue of his dress uniform, the cut of it across his shoulders and chest, the fit of it over the curve of his ass, his hips was just lethal. Every time he shifted against the support of the doorframe, the movement had sliced into Rodney’s concentration, severed the thread of his thoughts until they (and the VIP delegation) were left hanging, swinging on the ends of unfinished sentences. With the exception of O’Neill, who narrowed his eyes in the pauses, none of the guests seemed to notice anything amiss.

John was fucking loving it. Because only John Sheppard could wear dress blues like a ‘fuck you’ to every piece of brass in the room and simultaneously turn the crisp press and regulation fold of material into a ‘fuck me’ that Rodney could practically feel the second John propped himself in the corner of Rodney’s eye.

John knows how Rodney feels about the uniform. The half-smile that spreads itself over John’s lips, the spark flirting in eyes that say ‘interesting’ to anyone who doesn’t know him and ‘interested?’ to Rodney McKay are damning evidence.

As the last aide trails out after the group, John leans back, hands in pockets, framing his hips.

“Suit fits well,” John says, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as his eyes trace the fit of Rodney’s jacket. Rodney knows how John feels about this suit, and turnabout is fair play. Rodney shrugs off the jacket with a roll of his shoulders that pulls the cotton of his shirt tight over his biceps. He unpicks the knot of his tie with steady fingers, loosing the material to hang open around his neck. John tracks every shift of muscle, eyes sticking in the hollow of skin exposed at the base of Rodney’s throat as he thumbs his shirt collar open.

“Thanks,” he says, then allows himself to mentally remove every damn stitch John is wearing, thread by thread, taking the time to imagine creasing every single part of that uniform from collar to trouser hems because John started this and Rodney wants to see where he’ll take it next.

When Rodney looks back up into John’s face, he finds a blush staining the arches of his cheeks, mouth open in a soft, softly panting pout. When Rodney drops his eyes to John’s waist, he smiles: the lay of the material over John’s hips is uneven, pressed out by the way John’s blood has rushed to his groin.

Right when Rodney might have said something the aide reappears in the main entryway, several heavy itinerary folders clutched awkwardly to his chest.

“Colonel Sheppard, sir. Mr. Woolsey has requested you accompany him to the Chair Room with the delegation.” From the fluster in the aide’s manner, Rodney can tell that it wasn’t a request at all and that John is currently playing truant, much to Woolsey’s displeasure.

John clears his throat and casually snatches a folder that’s slipping out from beneath the aide’s arm. He flips it open like it were a magazine and holds it low, hiding the swell in his pants. Rodney smirks at him on impulse.

“Coming?” John snaps, scowling. Rodney laughs a low, intimate sound that travels visibly up John’s spine and makes him stand up straighter than he has all day.

“Later,” Rodney says, and is careful to brush himself up against as much of John’s body as possible when he pushes past him into his office.

Rodney thinks about the way John had swallowed hard as he turned away, imagines ‘later’ across his workbench, straddling his lap, up against the door frame where John had been standing. He imagines ‘later’ for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Later comes sooner than Rodney thinks it will. John slips out of the formal reception early, un-noticed, and radios Rodney.

“Come find me,” is all he says, but the dark rasp of his voice in Rodney’s ear, the way it sounds low and intimate through the earpiece tells him exactly where John is. A bare minute later, Rodney’s at the door of his own quarters. He doesn’t even have to swipe the sensor, doors sliding open for him with a hiss like indrawn breath.

In the darkness inside, a shadow in the shadows on his bed, Rodney can just about see John. He steps forward into the room, slowly crosses the floor to John’s side in even footsteps that belie the way his heart his racing, blood pounding. When he’s level with John, leaning back with his weight on his hands, thighs splayed, Rodney swallows. John inked across Rodney’s bed in an elegant scrawl is his favourite fantasy. John follows the movement of Rodney’s throat with dark eyes, and then surges up to catch Rodney’s tongue in a deep, licking kiss, tongue soft where it thrusts against Rodney’s.

When Rodney’s hands come up to John’s lapels, tug him in close, John breaks out of the kiss with a sharp gasp. “This,” he says into Rodney’s mouth, fitting his palms to the lines of Rodney’s suit and tracing them from shoulder to waist, “this looks good on you.” His hands twist into the fabric, like he wants it to fall away in his hands. John’s hands yank at Rodney’s shirt until the tails are hanging loose.

“Really?” Rodney pants, “‘cos you’re in an awful hurry to get me out of it.”

John makes a rough sound low in his throat and bites a kiss into Rodney’s jaw line, behind his ear. “People notice,” he grates, then “Don’t like it.” John presses his face into the upward slope of Rodney’s neck and opens his mouth against the skin, tongues the line of his throat.

“You’re jealous?” John bites back into Rodney’s mouth in answer, sucks hard on Rodney’s tongue as his hands work on buttons and fastenings, pushing the fabric of Rodney’s jacket, his shirt to the floor, when drops his hands to Rodney’s belt buckle. John’s hands deftly flick open the clasp, peel open the zipper; Rodney kicks away his dress shoes, then his pants and underwear when John shoves them down his thighs, nails scraping over Rodney’s skin in his rush. Rodney is suddenly naked in front of John, still standing there in his press-perfect blues.

Wrapping his hands around Rodney’s bare hips John drops to knees, pressing every part of his uniform against Rodney’s skin as he slides down. John looks up from the floor at Rodney’s feet with dark eyes through the darker sweep of lashes, open his mouth around the head of Rodney’s cock then goes down, take Rodney all the way down in one smooth, tight movement, slick-wet-heat everywhere.

When Rodney looks down, all he can see in the inky light is the pale sky of John’s shirt, the navy cut of his jacket, glint of silver on his shoulders.

John’s mouth is merciless as it moves, lips tight, throat loose, over him, pulling pleasure right through Rodney’s body. The way he looks on his knees, the rustle-shift of his uniform, the way he sucks around the head as he pulls back, swallows as it hits the back of his throat – the brush of his jacket sleeves rough against the smooth skin of Rodney’s thighs where John’s hand steady them both against the pleasure of it, the rhythm – it’s too much, more than Rodney can stand.

His hips snap forward into the pout of John’s lips, the silk inside his mouth and Rodney’s coming, John swallowing down, moaning when he pulls back and catches the last spurt of Rodney’s orgasm across his cheek. Rodney makes a desperate sound at the way it looks on John’s skin, the shine of it.

As the last of the sensation shakes through him, Rodney sways drunkenly in the afterglow. John uses his grip on his hips to turn him to the bed and Rodney drops heavily onto the mattress, John still on the floor, still hard.

Still dressed. God. “C’mere,” Rodney says, lying back on the bed.

John crawls up from between Rodney’s legs, breathing hard, and braces himself over Rodney’s body on his hands and knees. The fabric of his uniform is rough against Rodney’s sensitised skin; every brush of it makes him shiver, makes him hitch an unsteady breath between them. The buttons of John’s jacket, still fastened shut, are cold and hard against Rodney’s stomach when John leans down to take a kiss; his mouth, though, is hot and slick over Rodney’s, still wet with Rodney’s come. The taste of it is heavy on John’s palate when Rodney licks over it and John’s hips thrust down hard into his when Rodney sucks at his tongue for the taste.

When the kiss breaks messily apart, Rodney pushes insistently at John’s shoulder encouraging him to turn over then shifts himself upright, leaning back against the wall at the head of the bed. When John takes to long to do what Rodney wants, Rodney reaches out impatiently to hook an arm around John’s waist, haul him backwards so they’re pressed together, his naked chest to the cloth of John’s jacket.

John’s hands fall to Rodney’s legs, palms cupping his upraised knees for balance. They grip hard when Rodney’s own hands reach around for John’s fly, loosing the fastenings. The slight graze of his hand over the material makes John bite down hard on his lip, twist into the barely-there pressure of Rodney’s fingers.

“Up,” Rodney rasps into the shell of John’s ear. John gasps wetly and obediently lifts his hips; Rodney pushes down his pants and underwear with one shove, John kicking his legs to shift them the rest of the way off. He arches back when Rodney’s palms slide beneath the hem of his shirt, smooth up the plane of his stomach. Rodney hooks his chin over John’s shoulder, then slowly, firmly shifts his hands down to the top of John’s thighs, nails scraping lightly through the hair. John spread his legs in response, can’t hold back the “fuck” that trips off his reddened lips.

His cock rises flushed and hard from between his rumpled shirt tails, streaking the cotton with pre-come when it catches on the head.

“Jesus,” Rodney pants, “Look at you.”

“Rodney - ” John begins, sounding desperate, then chokes off the rest of his sentence as Rodney’s hand curls around the length of his cock and squeezes, moves up and down in a motion too slow and too light to be anything more than exquisitely imperfect. Rodney’s other hand goes to John’s shirt collar and works on the tie knot sitting exactly where it should on John’s shirt. When the length of it is free, Rodney wraps it loosely around his hand and moves on to the line of buttons on John’s shirt front, popping them open one by one until it’s half undone, John’s chest naked under his palm.

“Look at this, John,” Rodney says, twisting his palm over the slit of John’s cock and smoothing down, smearing pre-come along the length of it. When John doesn’t move, Rodney bites hard at the skin where neck slants into shoulder and says, “Open your eyes.” John groans but obeys, then moans again, hips surging when he sees Rodney’s hand working between his legs. Rodney licks a line along John’s jaw and then slides into a kiss when John’s mouth finds his.

John is losing himself, piece by piece, to the pleasure spreading from between his legs so doesn’t notice when the hand on his chest, tie wrapped over the knuckles, slips down to his stomach.

He notices when Rodney’s hand stills on his dick, makes a high-pitched sound as he writhes up, eyes screwed shut, trying to get the friction back. Rodney runs the hand up the line of John’s body, gliding to a stop palm-down over his right nipple. The roll and press of Rodney’s skin over the nub of John’s flesh is a tease, puckering the flesh in anticipation of a sharper sensation that doesn’t come. At the same time, Rodney drapes the trailing curl of rough blue fabric around John’s cock, then closes his fist tight around the tie and John both.

John’s eyes snap open and down to Rodney’s hand, at the dark blue of his tie, the spread of his shirt, his thighs and has to close his eyes again at the overwhelming flood of arousal that cascades over him. His spine arches on reflex, hips rolling forward as his head rolls back, biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle a sound that might be a scream if he let it out. The texture of herringbone cotton around him, the rough lick of it when Rodney moves his hand languorously up, down is painfully pleasurable, makes him thrust his hips sharply up into the scrape of heat.

Rodney is hard again, a hard press and slide of heat against the small of John’s back, cock slipping up between the back hem of John’s shirt and his heavy jacket, slicking through the sweat gathered in the hollow of his spine. Rodney is breathing heavy into the cup of his ear, swallowing hard whenever John thrusts, presses up into his hand then back against his cock.

The corkscrew twirl of Rodney’s hand, the shifting fabric of the tie over the shiny crown of his cock makes John stutter in his rhythm when the movement, the catch of Rodney’s thumb in the slit sends pleasure sparking through his nerves. Rodney tightens his hold so it’s almost brutal and quickens his pace, short, sharp jerks that make John writhe against Rodney, plead wordlessly.

When Rodney’s palm shifts over John’s chest, plucks at his nipple, John cries out.

“Jesus fucking Christ, John,” Rodney pants, repeating the movement. “Look at you. Wanted to do this all fucking day.”

“Rodney,” John gasps out, pushing up desperately, “Oh my god, please,”

“They should see you like this,” Rodney rasps and bites down through the cotton of John’s shirt collar. The thought of it, of the four star generals and higher-ups who have always looked down on him looking on at him like this is shockingly arousing. They’d envy him like this.

The idea, and the sensation Rodney is wringing out of his body with hands and fingers and teeth whites out the black behind his closed eyelids and John is coming, so fucking hard, shaking with the intensity of it.

“Oh, fuck,” Rodney moans, and John slits his eyes open to the see the last of his semen splash over Rodney’s fingers, his tie, pale against the dark fabric, streak up over his shirt tails, the lapels of his jacket. Rodney thrusts hard against him, clenches his hands into John’s shirt front and comes in a hot spurt against John’s back.

As Rodney shudders through his orgasm, John can feel his come slide down the skin there, down between the muscles of his ass. The trickle of it surges through him, making him whine, and John knows if he hadn’t come already, that would be enough to send him over the edge.

Rodney leans heavily into John, who leans back just as hard. Rodney’s forehead is pressed against John’s shoulder as he pants softly.

John’s hands are shaking when he looses the grip he’s taken in the sheets. It’s hard to lift them, every part of him numb with pleasure. After a moment, he manages to land them over the loose fists Rodney still has curled in his shirt front. With a little fumbling, he hooks his fingers into Rodney’s and squeezes. Rodney squeezes back weakly.

“Y’know,” John slurs, licking his lips, “I’ve nev’r really liked wearin’ this thing.”

Rodney huffs a laugh against his shoulder blade, and John smiles.

“Good,” Rodney says. “’cos I don’t think you’ll be able to wear it again. Ever. Jesus.”

John smiles even wider, then leans all his weight back to push Rodney back into the sheets, flips himself over so he can fit against Rodney’s side, reach up to plant a slow, sweet kiss on Rodney’s lips.

“Pity,” he says, pulling back. “Wanted you to fuck me in it.”

Rodney groans into John’s mouth, swats him over the head.

John laughs until Rodney pushes him off the bed.


End file.
